37 notes "Anxiety, lately. The poems have stopped coming.
I’ve displaced myself eight thousand miles
to find myself a new ruin. All of these
words feel tired; I am trodden and foreseen,
but if I trace the path of the birds I rapture myself
through desert wartorn scenes. Scenes like
weddings crushed by buzzing flies,
play-doh molting into funeral songs,
gauntlets petting castles back to sand,
American emperors cackling industrial lightning magic.
Presidents masturbate to Joseph Campbell,
meanwhile sons and fathers cradle their braves.
Waging genocide on my body is thankless.
You don’t have to thank me. My privates are rankless.
The visions come in spurts and buffering stops,
I see mothers with rattles and hummingbird wings,
the prams nurse blank air and collapsed potentialities,
the glass cat in the bag meows in stereo binary Swedish,
then drinks the Nissan River dry. But do you see what I mean?
My penis, dry; my notebook a virgin,
I peer at dots and fiddle with screens.
I’ve search optimized my avatar but
my body is thankless. Meanwhile all
around me the world bakes with infinity.
I eat a π with the sun in the radius.
I cannot fathom my own signs.
My mind is terrible and full of jesuses.
I tug at the shoulder of your sleeve;
you kiss my teeth and neurons sigh
but all the cherubim of the age
refuse to cable coals at my eyes,
so I wait for isha to melt into fajr
before climbing up the spiral of a Lutheran church.
The storm hurls down the rooster, Peter,
calling out denial is the real crime, you see.
Now that you have painted out my apathy
my twenty three years feel a rotten mess,
a decomposing ladder, from the top rung
to the bottom best I am at best an appositive drifter,
perhaps a grifter, selling confidence tricks
to no one but myself, pushing drugs to
snails making indecent love in their shells,
sanctified by the nomadic glory of portable
homes, kitchens, bedrooms and toilets,
the cake is a lie! the internet is a lie!
I wrote five ghazals but forgot the last line.
I have always been rootless but lately I am
anxious. Anxious? Well I negotiate nonsense.
Not nicotine, mostly. Still my body is thankless,
but I am tired of explaining;
I break rhyme for the meaning.
the poems have stopped coming.
the poems have stopped coming."
— "The Poems Have No Meaning", Samuel Caleb Wee (via nakedpersons)